


no escape from the storm inside of me

by WhiteLadyoftheRing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteLadyoftheRing/pseuds/WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow watches the first few flakes fall from the sky; watches and waits as the flurries gain momentum until the entire forest floor is blanketed in white.  The world is still and she revels in it, just waiting for the perfect moment to end.</p>
<p>--Snow's life, as told through winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no escape from the storm inside of me

**Author's Note:**

> ***Rating for one scene that may be triggering. This scene depicts a brief attempt at sexual assault and moderately graphic depictions of blood and violence. Please read at your own discretion.***

_**no escape from the storm inside of me** _

 

_i._

One night when the air is cold and the snow is falling like the feathers of a dove - big, wet flakes that stick to Snow’s cheeks and eyelashes - Mother tells her a story.

 

Snow’s hair is damp still, and she curls up in Mother’s lap, cuddling for warmth as deft fingers work through dark tresses. Johanna builds the fire and brings hot cocoa for them both; it’s sweet and tastes of cinnamon and winter.

 

“Before you were born,” Mother says, catching a snarl of hair between her fingers, “I decided to make a blanket for you. I chose the softest wool the lambs had to offer and the finest silk thread in all the lands, just for my baby girl. But the winter was harsh, and as I sat by my window, debating which name to embroider on the edge, a bluebird came and landed on the windowsill, chirping to be let inside.”

 

Snow finishes her cocoa, and Mother presses the other mug between her palms. Sipping gratefully, Snow thinks it would be awfully convenient to speak to birds.

 

“But when I opened the window, I pricked myself with my needle, and three droplets of blood landed in the snow on the windowsill,” Mother continues, plaiting Snow’s hair now with a handful of snowdrop blossoms. “And I thought, ‘This is so lovely,’ and I wished and I wished and I wished for a daughter as lovely as that day, with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony.”

 

“And then you had me.” The snow is falling harder now, sticking to the windowpanes like icy fingers.

 

“And then I had you,” Mother agrees. “My beautiful Snow.”

 

.

 

_ii._

The other children don’t like her. She doesn’t know quite how to speak to them, or what games they play but she’d like to learn. She thinks perhaps they’d teach her, but then they take one look at her embroidered cloak, turn to one another then back to her and say their mothers will be missing them. It’s a good enough excuse at first, but when the last of the children are gone she knows it can’t possibly be a coincidence.

 

“It’s because you’re a princess,” Johanna says. She always speaks to Snow like an adult, and while a part of her takes pride in that, she’d like to be a child sometimes too.

 

“What’s wrong with that?”

 

“Nothing, sweetpea.” Johanna pulls her close. “You can have fun on your own if you’d like, or we can go home.”

 

“I’ll stay,” Snow decides, and looks out over the field of well-trodden snow. “I’ll make a friend.”

 

Maybe not in the traditional sense, but she’ll make one regardless. The snow is wet and pliable, compressing easily between her palms to form a ball. She pushes it through the field, building and building it until it sits higher than her knees, and then she starts work on another.

 

The bottom of her dress is soaked through by the time she’s done, and her mittens have long ago ceased to keep out the chill. Father would be furious, and Mother would be clucking over her in concern, but Johanna just watches on, her breath like a dragon’s in the winter air.

 

She crafts her friend with love, carving the chin with extra care. She gives the snowgirl her scarf, long branches for arms, and a mess of yellowing twigs from a nearby willow for hair.

 

She sits back to admire her work while Johanna looks it over appraisingly. “What a lovely friend you’ve made.” Thankfully, she doesn’t mention how the scarf will be ruined. “What’s her name?”

 

“Emma,” Snow says decidedly. “Her name is Emma.”

 

.

 

_iii._

She isn’t a child. Not anymore, at least.

 

She may have only lived nine years (and three days), but she isn’t a child; she’s a woman. Children don’t bury their mothers. Children don’t hold the power of life and death in their hands. Children don’t make that choice.

  
Just like the crown, the candle is heavier than it looks. It weighs on her mind, on her heart. Its power is too great, and it must be destroyed.

 

She sets out in the dead of night. Creeping down the corridor in bare feet so she won’t be heard, she slips past the guards without fuss. It’s a game of hide-and-go-find-me, she thinks; the silly ‘game’ she’d play with Johanna when she wanted to worry the old woman silly.

 

The stables are unattended at night, making the perfect place to stop and tug on her boots and light her lantern. She isn’t a strong rider, so she leaves on foot, snowflakes catching in her hair and eyelashes.

 

Her cheeks are numb by the time she reaches her destination, standing warily at the edge of the drop-off. She’d promised never to come here, been told over and over again by her mother that it was too dangerous for children.

 

But she isn’t a child.

 

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she whispers, holding tightly to the trunk of a tree. The ground is slick and she nearly loses her footing; the wind echoes a mournful cry. “I’ll be good from now on,” she promises.

 

The candle weighs heavily in her satchel, and she doesn’t hesitate to chuck it over the edge, where she imagines it shattering into a million pieces.

 

.

 

_iv._

Snow works the brush through Regina’s hair, pulling in long strokes that leave the locks shiny and smooth. “My mother used to brush my hair,” she says absently, fingering the tresses - so soft and manageable compared to her own unruly mane.

 

Regina is oddly distant as she replies. “Did she?”

 

“Oh, yes. She’d braid flowers into it. Snowdrops.” The thought causes a small echo of pain in her gut, and her voice softens. “They were her favorites.”

 

"Would you like me to braid your hair then?"

 

Snow's heart swells at that. "Oh, would you?"

 

They switch places, and Regina begins methodically pulling the brush through Snow's hair. It catches on a snarl every time, and Snow hisses as the brush pulls her head with the force.

 

"Sorry," Regina murmurs. She doesn't sound very sorry, but she doesn't sound very happy either. 

 

"My hair has always been troublesome," Snow bites out, cringing as the brush catches yet again. "I can never seem to get it to cooperate. Neither can Johanna." She lowers her voice then, speaking with reverence. "Mother could, though."

 

Regina's hands pause, and she seems to consider that for a moment. "Maybe you could cut it off then."

 

Snow balks at the suggestion. "Like a _boy?_ "

 

She feels Regina shrug behind her, and begin to plait the mess of hair into an intricate braid. Her hands aren't as gentle as Mother's had been, and Snow feels her scalp sting even without the help of the brush. 

 

In the end, there are flowers braided in her hair, but they aren't snowdrops. 

 

.

 

_v._

Father insists winter is a poor time to take up archery, but Snow thinks it’s perfect. It had been her step-mother’s idea (and the more she thinks about it, the more she’s convinced it had merely been a ruse to get her out of the older woman’s hair). But archery is good for her soul, the weight of the bow a source of power in her palms. The chill in the air keeps her alert, and the target is bright against the white backdrop of winter.

 

She’s terrible at first, and the arrows soar past the target, embedding themselves in the surrounding trees. For a princess, she’d never been very graceful, and she’d never been anything akin to athletic. It makes archery difficult, but perhaps not so much as swordsmanship would be. Practice, she tells herself. It takes practice.

 

She steadies herself, breathes in, then releases on the exhale.

 

The arrow sinks itself into the target. Not the center, but close enough.

 

It’s a start.

 

.

 

_vi._

Snow has never shared a bed before.

 

As a princess, she’d never thought much of sharing anything at all. Beloved by all and the apple of her 

father’s eye, she’d wanted for nothing. As an outlaw, she’d had nothing at all to share; only the straw in the corner of whatever barn she’d slipped into that night.

 

Tonight, she has a bed, and she shares it.

 

Red had found nothing strange about this at all, merely offering Snow an old nightgown and crawling under the covers opposite her, red cloak wrapped firmly around her shoulders. This is new too, Snow thinks, watching the way Red’s hair spills across the pillowcase.

 

Snow has never had a friend before.

 

She cries in the dead of night - cries for her mother, for her father; she cries for her kingdom gone to ruin, for a huntsman laying down his life; she cries for herself. Her tears burn her cheeks, full of regret and guilt, hopelessness and loss.

 

A warm hand closes over hers.

 

“It’s okay, Mary,” Red whispers. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.”

 

Snow swallows hard, watching moonlight reflect on the snow outside, and tries her hardest to believe her.

 

 

.

 

_vii._

The guard finds her in the forest while she’s checking the rabbit snares. She hears the crunch of snow beneath his boots, the gasping of his breath in the icy air, but even as she turns it isn’t enough time to get away. He grabs her, and her boots slide on the icy ground. Terror shakes her body, pushes her to the precipice of fight or flight and then over the edge as she manages to slip away from him, dodging beneath his arm and running as fast as her feet can take her. She’s free, but only for a moment before he’s got her again, pushing her up against a tree. She paws at him, pushes at him and knocks his helmet from his head as his fingers close round her throat. “Just be quiet, _princess_. It’s easier that way.”

 

There’s a flash of something more there, something more than bloodlust, just--

 

Her blood runs cold.

 

His fingers fumble at the laces of her dress, and she feels the ice of his skin against her flesh. On instinct, she brings her knee up into his crotch, and when he releases her, crumpling in pain, she shoves him away with her hands, then kicks him as he stumbles.

 

Run, she thinks.

 

_Run._

 

She makes it three paces away, before she hears a sickening crack. She turns, and what she sees there turns her stomach.

 

The guard’s lifeless form is sprawled across the ground, his head split open on a sharp rock, blood seeping and spilling into the fresh white snow.

 

She chokes back tears and vomit, stumbles and slips in the snow. She slides down the embankment, snow and water clinging to her cloak, her dress, her skin.

 

No, not water.

 

_Blood._

 

She scrambles to her feet, slipping again in the mess, and again and again and again--

 

And she _runs_.

 

Everything is numb when she stumbles through the door of the cabin. The snow melts and drips from her limbs, forming a puddle at her feet. There’s a clatter and a crash as Red sees her and rushes over.

 

“Snow -- what -- ?”

 

“I killed him,” she says, and she tastes the acrid tinge of blood in the words. His blood. “I killed him,” she says again, and yet it still feels surreal.

 

“What? Who?” Red’s hands come to cradle her face, and they burn of heat and life. “Gods, Snow -- you’re freezing.”

 

“A -- a guard. One of Regina’s. He tried to--” She feels the bile rise in her throat again, sees the world turn around her.

 

Red catches her, moves her to sit in front of the fire as she works at the wet and bloody clothes, stripping Snow down to her chemise and wrapping her in the quilt from the bed.

 

She describes the incident - the ice and the cold, his hand and hot breath against her neck, the blood blooming in the snow - as Red heats a kettle of water. “I killed him,” she says again, unable to stop. She thinks of his eyes, glassy in death; she thinks of a broken promise, a promise to always be good. “He tried to-- and I killed him.”

 

“It was an accident,” Red says softly, pressing the damp rag to the bloodstains on her friend’s fair skin. “It was just an accident.”

 

“I killed him,” she whispers again.

 

He’s the first, she thinks with horror. And he won’t be the last.

 

.

 

_viii._

Snow watches the first few flakes fall from the sky; watches and waits as the flurries gain momentum until the entire forest floor is blanketed in white. The world is still and she revels in it, just waiting for the perfect moment to end.

 

Instead, she listens to footfalls from behind, feels the log shift as more weight settles onto it.

 

“You came,” she says quietly. The snow is falling still, each flake melting as it lands on her face. “I was worried the storm would keep you away.”

 

“Nothing could keep me from you,” Charming responds. “Not for long.”

 

“Mm,” she hums in response, and leans back on her hands, looking up into the snow.

 

“I could help you escape,” he says. “If you wanted, that is. I could find you a way to that other realm of yours. I could -- I could grant you amnesty.”

 

“You don’t want my problems, Charming.”

 

She can hear the concern in his voice, can feel it radiate from him. “I want to help you.”

 

“I don’t want your help.”

 

He grins, looking awfully proud of himself. “Then why do you keep sending for me?”

 

“To save you from the nag with the bad attitude,” she replies smartly. She snatches his satchel from him and digs through it until she finds the bundle of dried meat. “And you bring me food.”

 

“Ah,” he breathes. “So that’s what my company is good for.”

 

“Pretty much,” she agrees. “And it gets -- lonely.”

 

He sighs, and his breath comes out in a cloud of dense fog. “Snow--”

 

“What?” she replies sharply.

 

“Nothing,” he says, and turns his face up into the snow, delicate flakes clinging to his brow and eyelashes.

 

.

 

_ix._

Darkness gives way to blinding light.

 

_Charming_.

 

His lips are warm against hers; inviting.

 

Her lungs take in one large gulp of cold air and she wakes.

 

She breathes.

 

“You -- you found me,” she gasps, and leans her cheek into his hand. His warmth alights her cold skin, and she feels life bloom within herself once more. It pierces through the nightmares of the curse - this moment; no longer shrouded in dull shadow, but tangible as Charming’s hand in her own. This is special, she thinks and watches the chunky flakes of snow catch in his hair. This is a real moment - the first of many to come.

 

“Did you ever doubt I would?”

 

.

 

_x._

Fire and brimstone.

 

She breathes it in, feels the way it burns her lungs, chokes on the smoke and ash. She’s been here before - every night since dawn had broken never-ending night. And as before, she’ll wait.

 

There is no escape, no winter to calm this raging heat. There is nothing.

 

Nothing but the fire and flame, the pain and torment.

 

She wakes; Charming’s lips are soothing and cool against her brow, her eyelids. He kisses the tears away in the early morning light. “It was the nightmare again, wasn’t it? The burning room.”

 

She nods mutely, curling into his warmth - so different from the raging fires of her dreams.

 

He lights a candle.

 

Outside, in the dim light of morning, she sees it.

 

The first snowfall.

 

.

 

_xi._

At lunch, Mary Margaret watches her students build a snowman.

 

A blizzard has fallen over Storybrooke, blanketing the town in wet, pliable snow. The children are delighted, rolling balls of the stuff in the schoolyard until they’ve grown into massive forts, guarded by men with carrots for noses and lunch pails for hats. The younger kids join in too, constructing an impressive armory of snowballs for the ensuing war.

 

A smaller boy catches her eye, no older than six. He sits apart from the rest, rocking back and forth on the swings as his classmates frolic and play. The mayor’s son, she thinks. Poor boy must have trouble making friends.

 

She feels an ache of familiarity at that, though she has no idea why.

 

(For the briefest of moments, a fog lifts, and she thinks of building a friend from snow on a cold winter day, with long branches for arms and willowbark hair. The memory pulls at her heart, but it’s gone as swiftly as it had come.)

 

_xii._

The cold presses into Mary Margaret’s bones, settles there and refuses to let go. She’d hoped to finish this scarf in time for winter, but somehow opening her home to Emma had opened her life to much more. There’s less time for the frivolities of knitting and embroidery - less time for loneliness. There’d been a time when the soft tug of wool on metal had been her most loyal companion, but now - even as she casts off and weaves in the extra yarn - an evening alone is just that. Lonely.

 

She listens as clunky footfalls make their way up the stairs, then as the door slams open and closed. “Snow!”

 

Something in the word pulls at her mind; recognition fleeting, like a dream upon waking. “Hm?”

 

“Snow,” Emma grouses, covered from head to toe in the stuff. Her hair is a wet, tangled mess, and icy puddles are already forming around her feet. “It’s snowing.”

 

“I see that,” Mary Margaret smiles, watching Emma shed her outer layers then put her boots and socks over the radiator.

 

“I’m freezing,” Emma murmurs, and plops onto the couch. She burrows under Mary Margaret’s blanket, peering over at her work. “What are you working on?”

 

“A scarf,” Mary Margaret replies proudly, and holds up the length of black and grey wool. “I just finished it.”

 

“It looks warm,” Emma comments, and reaches out to feel the material between her fingers. “Could have used something like this today.”  


Mary Margaret speaks without thinking. “Why don’t you have it?”

 

“What? Me?”

 

“Of course you,” Mary Margaret laughs.

 

“Why?”

 

“Why not?” Mary Margaret presses the scarf into her friend’s hands. “I can just as easily make myself another one.” She nudges Emma, smiling cheekily. “And how am I supposed to make rent if you freeze to death.”

 

.

 

_xiii._

One night when the air is cold and the snow is falling like the feathers of a dove - big, wet flakes that stick to Snow’s cheeks and eyelashes - she tells her daughter a story.

 

Their hair is damp from running through the storm, their skin pink and cold from the icy air. Snow works her fingers through Emma’s mane, taming the unruly curls and pulling delicately at the snarls. “You know,” she says softly. “On a night much like tonight, my mother once told me why she named me ‘Snow’.”

 

“Yeah?” Emma wraps her fingers around her warm mug of cocoa, pillows it on the scarf in her lap and stretches her feet out to thaw in front of the radiator. “It was something about needlework and a windowsill, wasn’t it?”

 

Snow laughs softly, plaiting her daughter’s golden hair into a tidy braid. “Something like that.”

 

The air smells of chocolate and cinnamon, and Snow can hear Charming and Henry fumbling around in the kitchen. Emma is quiet for a long moment, sipping thoughtfully at her cocoa, and then-

 

“Why did you name me ‘Emma’?”

 

Snow’s breath catches, and her fingers pause in their work.

 

“I’d like to know,” Emma murmurs, fingering the length of black and grey wool in her lap.

 

Snow takes a deep breath, looking outside to where the storm has picked up, frost clinging to the windowpanes like icy fingers. “One winter,” she says, working her hands through Emma’s hair once more, “when I was very little …”

**Author's Note:**

> Angie is the best beta ever.
> 
> ***Title taken from the reprise of 'For the First Time in Forever' from the movie Frozen.


End file.
